Foxfire (68 page)

When she shared that observation with Darak, he smiled. “Nay. Just their chief.”

And weak as he was, he insisted on resuming those responsibilities. He met with the council, warning them that the Zherosi commander would likely pursue them. He gave orders to step up the training of the young men and women, to send some of the boys south to collect pine resin for making pitch, to send his recruits to more distant hills to keep watch, to develop a warning system using flaming arrows to alert the village of the approach of the Zherosi army, to stockpile food and water—and to make plans to evacuate.

“We have a sennight—or less—to prepare. When the signal comes, we must send the women and children into the hills. And my family. If I'm fit to travel, I'll go with them. Otherwise, I'll surrender. Gods willing, the Zherosi will be satisfied with that and leave the rest of you in peace.”

The children protested that they would never leave him. He silenced them with a weary shake of his head. Griane insisted that if there was fighting, the tribe would need their healer.

“If there's fighting,” Darak replied, “there'll be no one left alive to heal.”

When Lisula and Ennit came to visit, she assured them he was growing stronger every day. When Callie whispered that he looked so pale, she patted his hand and told him that was only to be expected. When Keirith blamed himself for failing to recognize the truth of his vision, she overrode his choked voice and sternly told him it was not his fault—and reminded him that such talk would only upset his father.

She showed a smiling face to the world and told herself that Rigat's magic and her skill had saved him. When she could no longer smile, she snatched up her withy basket and told them she needed to gather yarrow and other healing plants in the hills. No one reminded her that Hircha could do that. And when she returned, no one ever commented that her basket was still empty and her eyes red-rimmed from weeping.

On one such escape, Faelia followed her and bluntly demanded to know the truth about Rigat. In a few stark sentences, Griane told her. Expecting shock or denunciations, Faelia simply nodded. But her voice was hard when she asked, “If he's the Trickster's son, how can we ever trust him?”

“Because he's my son as well. And he loves us.”

But he hadn't loved Darak enough to save him.

She never voiced that bitter thought, but saw it reflected on Faelia's face, on the faces of all her children. They defended Rigat to the rest of the tribe, but in the privacy of their hut, no one spoke of him except Darak. Alone among them, he seemed to accept Rigat's choice.

For five days, she watched and prayed and tried to banish her fears. Perhaps Rigat had healed him. Perhaps the magic would last. Perhaps Darak's body was strong enough to recover without it.

On the sixth day, the two of them were sitting with Ennit and Lisula, reminiscing about the early days of their marriages. Inevitably, Ennit brought up her unrestrained response to Darak's lovemaking. Every time he told the story, his yowls became louder and more ridiculous, but this time, he made her sound positively demented. Lisula and Darak laughed. Griane punched Ennit's arm.

Then Darak choked.

Ennit and Lisula abruptly fell silent. Griane froze, caught by the stark fear in Darak's eyes.

The coughing fit passed. The tension in his body eased. He slowly lowered his hand from his mouth and stared at the blood staining his palm. Very carefully, he wiped his hand on his breeches and drew his sleeve across his mouth. Then he smiled.

“Aye. Well. It shut Ennit up, didn't it?”

She just stared at him, stricken.

He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I've been thinking about visiting Tinnean and Cuillon. Perhaps they know what the Zherosi are up to. It couldn't hurt to ask. Would you mind very much if Lisula opened the way for me on the morrow?”

Twice before, he had left her—once to seek Keirith in Zheros, and later, to join the rebellion. The first time, he had not asked her permission. The second time, he had sought her counsel and advice, and she had agreed that, for the sake of his tribe and his family, he must go.

Now, he wanted to leave her again. Only for a single day. Only from sunrise to sunset. She knew why he wanted to go—and why he wanted to go now. And she also knew that if she refused, he would stay.

He had seen the way she hovered over him, understood her need to touch him, to stay close. He knew that she would worry every moment that he was gone. Knew, too, how the crossing would drain him. He knew exactly what he was asking and what it would cost them both.

One day. Out of all the days and nights they had shared, it seemed such a little thing. Out of those that remained to them—ten? twenty?—the thought of being without him for even a moment was too terrible to contemplate.

She tasted blood and realized she had bitten through her lip. She swallowed down the blood and with it, the fear that threatened to choke her. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I'll hold supper until you return.”

For five days, Jholianna waited. She tried to lose herself in the myriad details of running an empire, but her mind was consumed by Rigat's absence.

She questioned Nekif again in a vain attempt to glean some new information. She sought out the Supplicant, only to discover that the priestess had vanished yet again. She consulted the Khonsel, who admitted that he, too, feared something must have happened in the north. She even took qiij and sought the wisdom of the gods, but the gods, as always, remained silent.

On the sixth day, she met with her council and reminded them to have patience and trust the Son of Zhe. The Pajhit whined. The Zheron intoned prophecy. The Stuavo speculated about the effect on commerce. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.

Instead, she dismissed them abruptly and spent the rest of the morning reviewing the latest reports from Iriku and the dismal results of the Khonsel's investigation.

There had been other attempts on her life during her long reign, but always, the Khonsel's efficient network of spies had discovered the conspirators before she was in danger. For days, he had tirelessly questioned the guards, the members of the Smiths Guild, and dozens of merchants and military officials who might have reason to complain about the handling of the war. And still he was no closer to finding those behind the attempted assassination.

It was little comfort to speculate that Rigat had been the target; the loss of the Son of Zhe would have been disastrous. She could only pray that the Carilians had fostered the plot; if it was her own people, the gods only knew how far the treason had spread.

When the midafternoon sezhta arrived, she bathed and retired to her bed, a damp cloth draped across her forehead to relieve her headache. Instead of drowsing through the heat of the day, she stared up at the starry night sky that adorned the ceiling, and sought the same patience she had reprimanded her counselors for lacking.

A shadow darkened the doorway of the balcony. She reared up, her heart pounding when she saw the figure through the gauzy draperies. After a long moment, Rigat stepped inside.

His hair hung loose and wild about his shoulders. His clothes were filthy and torn. He looked like an unruly boy who had been playing in the dirt, but his face seemed to have aged years since she had last seen him.

He watched her, body rigid with tension, fists clenched at his sides. But again his face belied his appearance for his eyes seemed to plead with her. For understanding? For forgiveness? Or simply to welcome him?

As she watched, his expression hardened. She flinched, awaiting the inevitable attack on her spirit. Instead, he strode forward to loom over her like a vengeful god.

“Did you send the orders for the truce?”

“You were there. You saw me—”

“Did you send other orders, countermanding those?”

“No. No!”

“Did Geriv receive them?”

“Of course. He must have. Please. Tell me what—”

“Did you know about the ambush?”

“In the Plaza of Justice?”

“In the north!”

“When?”

“And the prisoner exchange?”

“What prisoners? What are you—?”

“Geriv captured my brother. He meant to exchange him for Darak. But I prevented it. Did you know?”

She shook her head wildly, hands raised to ward off a blow.

“And the assassination attempt. Was that your idea?”

Anger swamped the fear, giving her courage. “You know what that day was like for me. Better than anyone. And you think I could have planned it?”

“Not the poisoned arrow. But the man with the dagger. You could have come up with that. Or the Khonsel. To keep me here. To keep me from discovering Geriv's plan.”

“I didn't know the plan!” she screamed.

Lady Alikia rushed into the chamber and drew up short. “Great lord . . . my lady . . .”

“Leave us,” Rigat commanded. When Lady Alikia hesitated, he roared, “Leave us!”

Rigat stalked to the balcony and remained there, his back to her. As she watched his heaving shoulders, Jholianna fought for calm. She had to think. To make sense of Rigat's accusations. To find a way to placate him.

Geriv would have to die. She only regretted that he had failed to kill the Spirit-Hunter first. And the Khonsel? Had he known about the prisoner exchange? If he had, he—like Geriv—had concealed it from her.

Which left the assassination attempt. The Khonsel had promised to find some way of keeping Rigat busy. He would not have risked poison, but that clumsy attack with a dagger?

Yes, he could have planned that, counting on the subsequent hysteria—and endless interrogations—to keep Rigat in Pilozhat. Little knowing that a real assassin would find an even better way of preventing Rigat from leaving.

He would have known better than to forewarn her. Ignorance was her only protection.

Brave, loyal Vazh do Havi. Like Geriv, he had risked everything—and lost. But she might still win. Despite everything, Rigat had come back to her.

She whispered his name and saw him flinch. Very slowly, he turned.

When she held out her arms, he stumbled toward her and fell on his knees beside the bed. She cradled his head in her lap, stroking his hair, gently plucking out twigs and leaves. She discovered a lump on the back of his head, a yellowing bruise on his wrist. Scratches and scrapes discolored the hands clutching her thighs.

She heard a sound—desperate, choking—and realized he was weeping.

He began to speak, his head still burrowed in her lap, his fingers twisting the folds of her sleeping robe. It was hard to make sense of what he was saying; he leaped from events in his childhood to those that had happened in the last few days. Sometimes, the words were muffled, sometimes far too clear, a wild outpouring of abasement and blame and rage.

He told her how he had refused to make the ultimate sacrifice to heal the Spirit-Hunter. How he had tried—and failed—to reach some place called the Summerlands. How they had driven him from his village with stones and curses.

Only then did she understand why he had not invaded her spirit. He was terrified that he might learn something that would prove that she, too, had betrayed him. His family had turned against him. His people had reviled him. She was all he had. Now—finally—he belonged to her.

Her sense of triumph was overshadowed by horror. To stone the son of a god. Even if they had acted in ignorance, it was unforgivable. They were barbarians, animals, unworthy of him.

As his broken sobbing continued, the horror receded, replaced by pity and an uncomfortable sense of kinship. How many times had Jholin knelt at her feet like this? Mourning the death of another friend, hating the necessity of their endless existence or—during those last years—wild with fury over some slight, real or imagined.

And now, this boy-god. Seeking her strength, her comfort. Recognizing—perhaps unconsciously—that despite their differences, they were very much alike. Unique beings, both of them. Wielding more power than any other rulers in the known world. Fated to live far longer than ordinary mortals.

She stared down at the flame-colored hair splayed across her knees, the freckled hands still gripping her thighs. The long fingers looked like claws, ruthless and predatory. Yet—endlessly twisting the folds of her robe—so helpless.

He would always be this strange amalgam of god and man, predator and prey, implacable destroyer and amusing companion. She would never feel entirely safe with him or be able to control him as she had Jholin. But he needed her now. And she needed him. So she stroked his head and offered the same soothing phrases that had always comforted Jholin: you mustn't worry, I'm here, I will never leave you, everything will be all right.

His head jerked up, his face swollen and damp. “It won't be all right! It will never be all right. Everything is ruined.”

“No, my dear. You can make it right.
We
will make it right.”

The tear-filled eyes blazed with sudden fury. “You made me stay.”

It took all her control not to recoil. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. You're right, it was my fault. Please forgive me.”

Quick as it had come, the fury disappeared. “No. It was my fault. It was all my fault.”

“You did everything you could. You're grieving for your foster-father now, but even if you'd sacrificed all your power, you couldn't have saved him. If anyone is to blame, it's that priest. But he cannot touch you here. In Zheros, you're safe and loved and worshiped.”

His expression hardened. “Not by the Vanel. He defied me.”

“And he'll be punished. I will—”